


goodbye, ruby tuesday

by mybffwonderwoman



Category: Edge of Tomorrow (2014)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Movie Spoilers, POV Female Character, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:30:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2597051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybffwonderwoman/pseuds/mybffwonderwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rita wakes up one morning and it seems someone (or someones) ended the war without her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	goodbye, ruby tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> title of fic is the title of one of my fave rolling stones' songs. obvi i don't own it or these characters. i am my own editor, so please let me know if there are any egregious errors!

It’s less the tinny sound of reveille coming in over the speakers and more her own finely tuned internal alarm clock that wakes Rita up.  
This is it. Big day. No do-overs.  
She does have to remind herself of that– that today is today and today only. This is not a videogame, you do not reboot or reset or whatever. Today is normal. Ha ha.  
Right then, up and at ‘em. Time to get those godforsaken mimics once and for all.

She’s up and dressed and doing a half-assed job on getting her hair out of her face when someone knocks on her door with an urgent message.  
Turn on your television.  
She doesn’t even bother to dismiss this kid, this private– honestly, he looks just like a child– she just swivels around and– where, where, oh, there’s the remote– follows orders.  
The television mounted on the wall above her bunk fizzles to life.  
Okay, press conference, UDF insignia on the as of yet empty podium. Rita glances back at the private, who is clearly taking advantage of the opportunity to hang around the living quarters of the Full Metal Bitch, and checks to make sure she’s on the right channel. He shrugs helplessly– he’s appropriately chastened to have been caught looking star struck but clearly doesn’t know anything more than he’s already said.  
So back to the television. A broad uniformed man with a craggy face– oh, she knows him, oh, shit, she met him at least once post-Verdun, he’s a fellow Brit, he’s a general? General Brigham!– steps up to the mic. Cameras flash. The press quiets down.

And just like that, the war ends.  
An energy surge. Apparently sparked in the absence of any actual troops, so who the hell knows what that means. Rita wonders if Carter had a hand in this, but if he did, wouldn’t he have told her?  
Maybe somebody looped. What are the chances?  
Whatever.  
Thank god, this time, it wasn’t her. 

Of course, the work’s not done. Of course, they hope that the reports coming out of France are accurate, but they’ll go forward with the planned invasion anyway.  
Pretend they are landing on a beach covered in enemy combatants. Better safe than sorry.  
It is Rita’s job, as squadron leader and UDF mascot, to present an unaffected front. Quote: we must assume the worst (that the mimics have manufactured this blast as a diversion and are planning an ambush) and hope for the best (the mimics are gone for good), unquote. Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched, etc, etc.  
Basically, she has to be her regular old hard ass self and prevent the sloppiness that premature celebration inevitably breeds.

So Rita eats her breakfast at her own private table in the canteen and doesn’t look at anyone else and then she heads to the mechanics to check on her suit. There it is, scratches getting buffed out, guns being loaded, some wiring being fiddled with. All is well. She begins to head out and the good doctor sidles up alongside her. She continues winding her way through the workshop with him in tow and after exchanging ‘hello’s, Carter very conspiratorially asks her if she’s heard about Paris. She wants to point out how silly it is be secretive about it– the press conference was broadcast on all television networks probably in the world– but instead she just nods affirmation. He’s fishing for something– whether she had a hand in the mysterious mimic defeat?  
It wasn’t her. Did he have anything to do with–  
Negative for him as well.  
Hmm. Alright.  
Not much more to say and very much more to do, so she nods her head and walks away. She’s out of his sight before she realizes that maybe she was rude. Are they friends? Should she have been warmer? She met him over and over again in the loop, but he’s only known her for maybe a couple of weeks in real time.  
Oh, she doesn’t have time to think about it. That’s post-war talk. She needs to practice killing mimics and she needs to stretch.

She cuts through clusters of her fellow soldiers and her gaze diminishes but does not dissipate the whispers of excitement. Last night, every man and woman on this base went to bed thinking they had a 95% chance of dying the following morning. They’ve woken up to find they’re 95% likely to live. She understands it. Contrary to popular belief, she doesn’t relish her reputation as a killjoy.  
But it’s her duty to keep these people in line, so she orders a particularly green and relieved looking private who was looking a little too chatty to do a hundred push-ups on the tarmac.  
Ah, yes, there’s the sense of fun. She’s killed it completely. Delightful.  
Rita charges toward the training complex and everyone gives her a wide berth.

She’s probably three minutes away from being done with her training exercises when, naturally, she’s interrupted. Some man strides onto the training floor like he owns the place (naturally) and for a moment, Rita is pretty sure she doesn’t know him from Adam. But wait. Short. Toothy. Definitely American? Oh, dear sweet Lord in heaven, it’s that insufferable UDF shill who’s the face of recruitment. Probably number two on her list of top five people she absolutely does not need to meet in her life.  
He takes off his hat, which in her opinion, is the absolute least he could do, and she gets up off the floor and–  
Well, he doesn’t do much of anything.  
She’s momentarily disconcerted– she assumed she was getting orders or entreaties to do another press junket, but he just looks at her and there’s something very tentative about it and she doesn’t just want to ask what he wants so she asks him if something is on her face, because honestly, the way he’s staring there just might be an oil smudge on her cheek or something.  
And he smiles. And it’s not a television smile, surprisingly. It’s bright and relieved and a little hungry for something, for warmth. It’s a little like Christmas lights coming on after the sun’s gone down. Or something less corny.  
Anyway.  
He smiles and he says no. There’s nothing on her face. Sorry. He’s sorry for interrupting, he was just visiting the base and he wanted to see the Angel of Verdun in person. He’s spent so much time talking about her, you see, on the TV and–  
Okay, she doesn’t need to listen to this part. It does strike her as a bit odd– she can tell he’s trying to come across as a low key fanboy, but he keeps looking at her and it’s like he’s looking at an old friend, captivated by the old flame at the high school reunion, or something, or something less utterly schmaltzy.  
Maybe he just feels like he knows her because he spent so much time talking about her. People are like that about celebrities, right-? Is she a proper celebrity– can a propaganda tool be a celebrity? Can you be a celebrity just for chopping aliens really well and watching your friends and lovers die around you–  
Not a particularly useful train of thought.  
Oh, she’s missed something he’s said. It doesn’t seem to have been terribly important. He’s telling her that he grew up in Cranberry, New Jersey, which is too much information that she doesn’t need– it’s funny, he comes across as so smooth on television but in front of her, he is all stumbles– he’s rambling and suddenly he senses it and stops. Light awkward laughter. He realizes he didn’t properly introduce himself.  
“You’re Major William Cage,” she tells him before he can tell her. She’s surprised, rather proud of herself that she managed to remember that. What does she remember that from– television, it must be.  
He looks surprised at this, actually mightily disarmed and Rita feels that this is a good look on him. She tells him his reputation precedes him and she hopes she does it in a way that communicates cold professionalism and a deep disinterest in the conversation.  
Right. Yes. Well, it was lovely to meet her, he’s sorry to take up so much of her time. He hopes he will see her again maybe as he tours the base. Or. Or some other time.  
She can’t imagine when that will happen, but she nods her head anyway and gives a cursory smile.  
He sees his cue to go. And there he turns and walks away.  
And Rita has the most profound sense of déjà vu.


End file.
